mirkwood :: grief
by Jeiq
Summary: Mirkwood grieves for its prince, Legolas; here his body has returned, but his heart aches for the sea, and the woods know they will lose him, soon.


Ah, Legolas. How I wish I were Mirkwood. At least for that part of time before the Fellowship was formed and he left it, anyway. I cannot remember any mention of Legolas's life in Mirkwood, but if he was prince of the forest, I think he'd have developed quite a bond with it. Also, not being a rabid Tolkien fan, I have forgotten what happened to Legolas between the end of the books and his own journey to the Grey Havens; I assume, being the dutiful son, he did return to Mirkwood for a while, out of sentiment for his old home, if nothing else. 

**mirkwood: grief**

  
We are the trees that he walks between, the boughs that he leaps unto; we are the birds that sing to his ears, the ground blessed by the touch of his feet. We were the cradle that rocked him to sleep, the lullably of his childhood, the friend of his growing years and the world of his youth, a wonderland for a golden child. We feel him and we are glad; sunlight is brighter, flowers bloom sweeter, air flows easier over our ground. Where we are the creatures of the woods, life extends for a moment beyond food and water and shelter, hunter and hunted forgotten for the touch of his hand; where we are the trees and the bushes, the vines and the moss, the stones and the streams, we wake from a torpor of almost eternally long life to bear humble witness to his passing. Where we are the light, either white-gold on the leaves by day, or silver-blue in the dark of the moon, we are granted a sense of magic by his presence. And we know he feels us, he is glad of us; we can ask for no more. Our prince is near, and his heart is here. We are content. 

When there was strife in the world, he left to help heal it; when there was peace, he returned. O, after so long, with so much evil lurking, so close that our leaves curled in the rank breath of battle-smoke from wars that were supposed to be so far away! But even so we rejoiced, for if the war was near, our prince was near; and if our prince was near, life, green and lush and small and furry, _our_ life, was better. 

Now he returns. Now he is closer, his journey over; his battles are won and his duty is done. Now his footfalls we feel through the earth, light as they are; now his keen eyes we feel. There he is on the horizon, he is coming home! We surge in colour and light to greet him, our prince come home forever. 

He stops, and shadow drags in his path. Around us the woods are empty, the people gone. He is left alone, his heart is torn. They have gone over the hills, across the river and into other trees; they have walked over mountains and sailed over the seas. Already we have forgotten them. Our prince is returned. 

He does not see the trees; his mind is full of sea. He does not feel the forest breeze, nor heed the touch of the leaves. The birds sing and the crickets chirp, an orchestra for his audience only; he turns his head and strains his ears to hear the boom of the surf on shore. He is torn and soon the tear will be complete. One or the other. We put forth all the enchantments that held him so fascinated, we bloom and flow, rustle and glow. Still he lifts his head with that fair face turned to the seaward sky. Our prince is lost to us, and soon he will also be gone. And when he is gone we will be no more; we are nothing without his touch, his smiles, his voice. He is the magic that lives in us, and without him we are nothing more than a clump of trees, a few small streams, a flock of birds in the leaves; without him we are no different than the forests to the north, or to the south, or east, or west. 

We could claim him yet, before he leaves. A thousand sharp teeth in the mouths of creatures in their holes, a thousand sharp beaks on the heads of birds so pretty in the boughs; the heavy trunks of trees that he walks beneath, the sharp rocks in the rivers where he bathes. We could claim him for our own and he would walk our ground forever, a golden ghost in a golden, undying forest. But he sleeps so sweet, his trust complete. Our fallen leaves his russet bed, our mossy roots a pillow for his head. Our prince, too beautiful to kill. No blow is dropped; our fate, we seal. 

So we, the woods, will become the ghost, and he, our prince, will go on undying wherever his heart takes him. Perhaps he will find his way over the seas to join his people, or perhaps he has a part to play in more battles. Perhaps his story is not over yet. Ours we end, tonight, for happy endings ring sweeter to a reader's ear, and there is no ending happier for us than to sing a lullaby to our prince as he sleeps for the last time in the cradle we make for him. 


End file.
